


sometimes, you can be almost human

by mariuscourf



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, House Sitting, Jewish Grantaire, M/M, SO MUCH BANTER, all i know how to write is banter, enjolras accidentally gets hooked on fantasy sitcoms, i am truly a one woman marius pontmercy fan club (i just love him so much okay), mild mild angst if u squint, passing reference to valjean/javert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariuscourf/pseuds/mariuscourf
Summary: Enjolras has a roommate so horrible he cannot stand to sleep in his apartment another night. Grantaire is out of town for the week. Marius Pontmercy does not know when to keep his mouth shut.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 120





	sometimes, you can be almost human

Enjolras wouldn’t call his living situation bad per se, just complicated. It wasn’t his fault that the last three roommates had moved out– the first claimed he had to leave because of cat allergy (Enjolras did not have a cat), the second tried to convert him to– heterosexuality, maybe? Some new cult? Enjolras hadn’t actually been listening, and the roommate left once he realized Enjolras was probably a lost cause. (Jokes on him, Enjolras didn’t believe in lost causes. Well, he also didn’t believe in joining cults or being straight). The third lasted all of two weeks before just packing up and moving, leaving no trace and no forwarding address, just a game of Blackberry 25th Edition Monopoly, which: was that supposed to be some kind of pro-capitalist message? “Dude, he probably just forgot to pack his board games, you’re overthinking this,” Courfeyrac had told him. (But overthinking things was Enjolras’s thing, and Courfeyrac has also told Enjolras not to change himself for any man, so.)

He should be able to afford a place on his own, damn it. But instead of following his classmates into corporate law (could you imagine?), or at the very least some type of law that would give him a decent paycheck among other things that Enjolras needed in the capitalist hellscape of a world. But between law school loans and his nonprofit salary…

“How’s the new roomie?” Jehan asked, sliding into the armchair next to Enjolras. His friends were taking up over half the seating in the coffee shop they had been frequenting since college, and if Joly and Bossuet’s girlfriend didn’t work there, there’s no way the whole group would all be allowed in again. Secretly, Enjolras suspected that when he was away for law school, they had all been kicked out and only let back in under new management. “Did he like the welcome basket I sent?”

Jehan and their infamous welcome baskets. Or not-welcome basket, because Jehan would really just take any excuse to put a gift basket together, Enjolras still has some snickerdoodle from the “you went to bed before midnight for the first time since I’ve known you!” basket he got last month. (The welcome baskets may have been one of the factors in his last roommate’s quick fleeing. Enjolras’s friends came off strong.)

Instead of responding, Enjolras buried his head in his hands.

“That bad?” Bahorel asked.

“I’m pretty sure he’s running a multilevel marketing scheme out of the apartment. He might be allergic to washing dishes. He has a different homophobic-looking frat-boy friend over every day and none of them wipe their feet before coming in.”

Bahorel winced, which caused Enjolras to grimace, because when even Bahorel thought someone was too weird to live with, that was a sign that they were definitely too weird to live with. (Bahorel inexplicably lived out in the suburbs with a middle school math teacher, a hospital chaplain, and an Instagram influencer couple. None of Enjolras’s friends had ever been to Bahorel’s house. Based off the stories Bahorel told, completely unfazed by anything, Enjolras didn’t plan on making the trek out anytime soon.)

“Grantaire needs a house-sitter!” Marius offered up, causing Grantaire to send a glare in his direction.

“Uh, I mean, I’m away all of next week, but–” Grantaire stammered.

“Enjolras can stay in your apartment!” Joly beamed. 

Enjolras could imagine a few fates worse than staying at Grantaire’s apartment, but not many, not because of anything Grantaire had done, just because he wasn’t entirely sure if he and Grantaire were “staying at each other's apartments” levels of close. They had been, once, but Enjolras was too exhausted to rehash his friendship histories, mainly because his roommate bought a drum set last week and while Enjolras didn’t sleep much, he should be able to sleep in his own home if he wanted.

“Where’re you going?” Combeferre asked.

Cosette grinned. “He’s photographing my dad’s wedding!”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Enjolras was aware that Cosette’s dad was getting married, but all it had meant to him was that Marius Pontmercy was going to be out of town, and more importantly, out of the office.

“No, this is good,” Courfeyrac added. “Grantaire’s succulents are on the verge of death, someone needs to water them.”

“And Enjolras is who we trust to take care of plants?” Combeferre raised an eyebrow.

“Hey!” (Although Combeferre did have a point, Enjolras had killed every plant he ever had, and on one tragic occasion, Bossuet’s goldfish, although he maintains that was just Bossuet’s bad luck rubbing off on him.)

“You really don’t have to,” Grantaire said. “I cannot emphasize enough how much you don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“Impose? There could be a dead body underneath his couch and R wouldn’t notice for weeks.” Courfeyrac snorted.

“And that’s supposed to make Enjolras want to stay there?” Combeferre raised an eyebrow.

From across the coffee shop, where she had been talking with Musichetta, Eponine cackled. “Enjolras! I just got invited to a party at your apartment for tonight.”

Well, fuck.

Enjolras wasn’t sure what house-sitting entailed, but it wasn’t this.

“Uh. Water the plants, I guess?” Grantaire scratched his stubble. “If they’re not dead. They might be dead.”

He looked around at the clutter that Grantaire’s one-bedroom consisted of. A ratty couch, flickered with paint stains and cigarette burns. Stacks of books piled everywhere, fantasy novels and pulp-y romances shoved up against the wall. DVD and VHS tapes towering practically up to the ceiling– okay, did Grantaire just not know about the existence of shelves? An IKEA coffee table, one leg not screwed in completely, littered with mugs and more books: a coffee table book on Marilyn Monroe, a coffee table book on some photographer Enjolras vaguely recognized, a coffee table book on coffee tables. He was starting to see the reason no one ever hung out at Grantaire’s.

“I’ll be back on Sunday. Probably.”

“You really don’t have to do this,” Enjolras said. 

“Have to help a bro out,” Grantaire deadpanned. Were him and Enjolras bros? They hung out a lot, sure, but in the past few years it was only ever in a group, and a pretty big one at that. Save for the one time that Marius invited Enjolras and Grantaire over for what would have felt suspiciously like a double date if it weren’t for Marius being well, Marius. “By bro, I mean Courfeyrac.”

It occurred to Enjolras that Courfeyrac would be down a roommate this week. Worst case scenario, he could have stayed there. Why was he not staying with Courfeyrac?

Marius Pontmercy and his knowledge of Grantaire being out of town, that’s why. Marius Pontmercy, and his girlfriend’s dad’s wedding, and Grantaire’s wedding photography, and Enjolras’s shitty roommate, and really, what is wrong with not wanting to be in an apartment where people come by every hour to buy anti-aging serum and frozen foods, and truly, what was the multilevel marketing scheme even trying to sell? Was there a general theme; was Enjolras just missing something?

“I’m kidding,” Grantaire said after an uncomfortable pause. “It’s like, you can stay here or the homeless guy across the street could break in, and both are fine with me but my landlord wouldn’t be a fan of the latter.”

Enjolras sighed, he couldn’t help himself. Sometimes Grantaire was just so _Grantaire_.

“Hey, don’t give me that annoyed look, I’m not perpetuating stereotypes of the homeless, I’m just saying, he gives me weird looks all the time.”

Enjolras was very proud of himself for not rolling his eyes at that. Because really, didn’t everyone give Grantaire weird looks all the time? Not _I’m-going-to-break-into-your-apartment_ weird, but _you-are-objectively-attractive-and-I-want-to-run-my-hands-through-your-hair_ weird.

“Anything else about the apartment I should know?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire shook his head. “Don’t set the place on fire, but if you did, I probably wouldn’t notice. Uh, help yourself to whatever food I have? Are there other things I’m supposed to tell you?”

Enjolras shrugged. This was officially the longest he had talked to Grantaire one-on-one since college. “Have a good wedding,” he said.

Grantaire hoisted his backpack up and headed to the door. “Enjoy the roommate break.”

  
  


_What’s your WiFi password?_

_restaurant downstairs, stopitgrantaire!2_

_Was stopitgrantaire!1 already taken?_

_yeah, by you_

  
  


Grantaire’s bed was comfortable, which shouldn’t have necessarily surprised Enjolras, but did. The couch had been taken off a street corner. The kitchen boasted plastic folding chairs. Enjolras had been willing to sacrifice comfort for a night’s sleep without the sounds of his roommate blasting pornography from the next room– really, were headphones the only think his multilevel marketing scheme didn’t sell?

 _Bed_ might have been an exaggeration, as seemingly no one had told Grantaire that 26 was too old to be sleeping on a mattress on the ground. But _what a mattress_.

Grantaire’s living room was the after image of a Blockbuster Video ravaged by a hurricane. His bedroom consisted solely of the floored mattress, with a stack of sketchbooks providing use as a bedside table, a wineglass precariously perched on top. A weirdly jagged, unvarnished dresser, probably from Grantaire’s carpentry phase last year. He had been Enjolras’s Secret Non-Denominational Winter Holiday Gift Giver that year (“Hanukkah Fairy,” Grantaire had said. “Just call me a Hanukkah Fairy.” “Is that a real thing?” “No, Hanukkah’s a fake holiday, I’m just making a self-deprecating gay joke, get with the program”), and Enjolras still had a homemade wooden box somewhere.

Enjolras sunk into the pile of blankets on the floor-mattress, exhausted. Why was he exhausted? All he had done that day was pack up a duffle full of essentials. Maybe Grantaire’s apartment was sucking the energy out of him, or if not Grantaire’s apartment, at least the weird yarn-and-tinfoil-covered life-size doll sitting at the kitchen table. (Enjolras had assumed it was for an art project, but wasn’t about to ask on the off chance it was for something entirely more strange.)

There was just something so strange about being in Grantaire’s bed- err, mattress on the ground. Enjolras had known him since college, but did he really know anything _about_ Grantaire? He was an artist, but makes most of his money from photographing weddings and bar mitzvahs. He loved fighting Enjolras on seemingly every word, every idea that came out of his mouth.

They had taken a few classes together in undergrad– philosophy, mostly. (“Talking back in meetings is just so much fun, I figured I may as well put those skills towards my GPA,” Grantaire had said.) Their last semester, they had almost been close– writing an incomprehensible paper on Rawls together, pulling an all-nighter working in the basement of the art building, a place without reliable internet, but a place where Enjolras could tack all his arguments to the wall to link together with red string until he got them into some comprehensible order. (“Apollo, if you go all Pepe Silvia on me here, I swear to god–” “If we move this argument down to this paragraph–” “You know I don’t believe a single thing we’re writing down?” “Then why–” “Uh, guaranteed good grade? Morbid curiosity? Chance to glimpse the inner workings of your hot but shockingly messy mind? If this is what your essay outlines look like, then I cannot _wait_ to see your plan to overthrow the government, holy shit, do you need more red string? I can get you the art student discount on yarn.”)

If that night was Grantaire peering inside Enjolras’s head, Enjolras staring at Grantaire’s bedroom walls was the reverse. Sketches were tacked up everywhere– with actual tacks, did Grantaire just not _want_ his security deposit back? Pinned up behind the floor-mattress was what seemed like a grocery list, with a cartoon of someone that looked suspiciously like Enjolras, a speech bubble over his head reading “don’t forget paper towels again, bitch!” It was weirdly intimate, more so than Enjolras was expecting, and he felt as if he was seeing things not meant for his eyes.

_cosette wants to make sure you’re actually watering the plants_

_Does she not have better things to worry about at her father’s wedding?_

_u totally forgot didn’t u_

  
  


The disc drive on Enjolras’s laptop was getting the workout of its life. The WiFi from downstairs was spotty, and although WiFi should be universally accessible and free for everyone, he still felt bad using it. When Grantaire called Monday night, Enjolras was two hours into a fantasy sitcom rabbit hole. Most of Grantaire’s DVDs were unlabelled and unorganized, and Enjolras needed to look at something that wasn’t related to his latest case. All his books were back at his apartment, and he was going to take what he could get.

“Enjolras speaking.”

The sound on Grantaire’s end of the line was muffled, but Enjolras could hear him snort. “That’s how you answer the phone?” A pause. “Hang on, is that the theme song to _Jennifer Slept Here_?”

He pressed pause. “Definitely not.”

“I just saw the most beautiful ghost in the world…” Grantaire sung. “You know, Bahorel had to pirate those from the part of the web so dark that even I’ve never been on it? That show was never released on DVD.”

“How many laws am I breaking right now?”

“Fewer than you broke the last time we were at protest together.”

It had been what, a month and a half since Enjolras was last at a protest with Grantaire? He wasn’t sure why Grantaire showed up to them to begin with.

“Why are you calling?”

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras.”

Enjolras could practically see Grantaire pulling off his usual beanie and running his hand through his hair, the way he always did when Enjolras said something he found questionable. Although if Grantaire was wedding photographing, he probably wasn’t wearing the hat, but it was a Tuesday past midnight, what wedding things could be going on? All Enjolras knew about Cosette’s dad is that he was an ex-con, which said nothing about his weeknight partying habits.

“I don’t know, let’s say I’m calling to check in on the plants.”

“Where are the plants?”

Grantaire snorted, again. “One is in the fridge, next to a pot brownie– help yourself, god knows you could use it– and the other’s in the closet.”

“And is that being a responsible plant owner?” 

“Shut up, you killed Bossuet’s goldfish.” A pause. “I think that’s the longest I’ve gone without fighting you, and I deserve a medal.”

“Oh?” There’s no way that was true. Sure, they argued a lot but– well, Enjolras couldn’t think of a peaceful conversation, but was that a bad thing? “Are we counting law school?”

“Hard to fight when you’re not around.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “It’s two in the morning, you want to get into this now?”

“Goodnight, Apollo.”

Another eye roll. Enjolras sunk deeper into the mess of blankets on Grantaire’s bed.

_have u met the cat yet_

_Excuse me?_

_the stray cat outside?_

_i feed him sometimes idk_

_You didn’t think to mention this?_

_he likes day-old pizza and responds to the name apollo_

_Grantaire._

_Did you name a cat after me?_

_wow comparing urself to a greek god now are u_

_someone thinks highly of himself_

_Grantaire._

_i said he responds to apollo, not that he’s named apollo._

_Grantaire._

_much like you_

_y’all have a lot in common_

_Grantaire._

_that’s my name baby don’t wear it out._

  
  


Enjolras would deny it, but he had reached the third season of Bewitched and might have to steal some of Grantaire’s DVDs when he left. It was past midnight on Thursday, and he only had a few more days to get through the rest of it. He had just queued up another episode when there was a banging at Grantaire’s door.

“Enjolras!”

He was surprised to hear Joly’s voice outside the third floor walk-up. Joly, one of the only people Enjolras knew to at least _try_ and stick to a decent sleep schedule.

“Enjolrassss,” another voice chorused. Bosseut.

Enjolras begrudgingly climbed off the floor-mattress to let his friends in. “Why in the world are you awake?”

“Night shift,” Joly shrugged.

“I’m always awake when Joly’s awake,” Bosseut added.

The two of them followed Enjolras into the apartment. “Sup, Pierre?” Bossuet nodded at the kooky tin-foil-yarn-doll.

“Pierre?” Enjolras asked.

“As in Robes,” Joly supplied. “Although this dude still has a head. For now.”

“It’s not that I don’t love seeing you, but–”

“Why are we here?” Bossuet said, sitting down on the lumpy couch. Enjolras could not, for the life of him, understand how anyone could stay there for longer than two minutes without getting a crick in their neck. (Or maybe Enjolras was just getting old.) “We just wanna see what’s up.”

“Grantaire’s our best friend,” Joly tossed his cane to the ground and joined his boyfriend. “And we hear you’ve been talking again.”

“Again?” Enjolras asked.

“Enjolras, I love you.” Bossuet said. “I would die for you.”

Joly nodded. “But remember law school?”

Yes, Enjolras remembered when he went to law school, it was pretty hard to forget the toughest three years of his life, living an hour away from all his friends and only emerging from the library to talk with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, because, you know, showing weakness, but damn, it had _sucked_.

“And dropped off the face of the planet?” Bossuet said.

“Which would only be acceptable if you emerged on, like, the face of another planet.” Joly grinned. “Like you spent three years on Mars. Like you Mark Watney-ed. Bossuet, can we do _The Martian_ as our book club pick next month?”

“That was last month’s book club pick.”

“You have a book club?” Enjolras asked. If he had enough time to watch Grantaire’s old TV, he definitely had enough time to join a book club– well, someone might have to knock his WiFi out so he couldn’t do work, but still.

“Well no, but it makes us and Musichetta sound fancy.” Joly explained.

“Instead of just listening to audiobooks while we cook dinner,” Bossuet said.

“Anyway. You and your planet-face-dropping off!”

Enjolras hadn’t exactly dropped off the face of the planet, Combeferre and Courfeyrac would occasionally drag him back to the city, where he would stay holed up in their apartments, reviewing torts. Still, he had been making angry political Facebook posts, it wasn’t like he was _dead_.

Although come to think of it, he hadn’t talked much with Joly and Bossuet during that time. When Enjolras moved back to the city two years ago, he just picked up right where he left off with everyone, except, come to think of it, _Grantaire_ , having chalked that last semester of undergrad up to being just last-semester-of-undergrad weirdness. (Courfeyrac had tried to only speak in sonnets for an entire two weeks. Jehan had dyed their hair a truly terrible shade of green the night before graduation. Feuilly had camped out on the roof of every building on campus. Marius had started a podcast. Bahorel had streaked across the quad, although the jury was still out on whether that was last-semester weirdness or just Bahorel being Bahorel.)

Bossuet took a deep breath. “It hurt Grantaire.”

“And us!!” Joly added. “It also hurt us!”

Enjolras’s friends had all given him shit about it for at least six months after he moved back.

“But mostly Grantaire.” Bossuet clarified. 

“Oh yeah, we’re chill now.” Joly nodded.

“Alright,” Enjolras said, “I’m glad you came over at three in the morning to tell me that we’re chill.” And honestly, he was, because his friends’ opinions were the only ones that truly mattered to him, but still, three in the morning. “Where is this going?”

“Fuckin’ lawyers,” Joly said, which caused Bossuet to poke him. 

“R really liked you, and made us a lot of emo playlists during your first year at law school, and what Joly’s saying is that he doesn’t want to listen to another sad white boy playing guitar,” Bossuet clarified. “I also do not want to listen to another sad white boy playing guitar.”

“So you’re coming here to make sure my friendship intentions are pure?” Enjolras raised an eyebrow, not noticing the look Joly and Bossuet shared at the word _friendship_. “Or do you want me to make you a playlist–”

“God no, it would be all Joni Mitchell interspersed between NPR podcasts,” Bossuet snorted.

“Hey, since we’re here, wanna Pictionary?” Joly asked.

“I have court in the morning,” Enjolras said, grabbing paper and pens for the game anyway.

_so ur going as samantha for next halloween right_

_wait ugh halloween’s so far away_

_i will throw a purim party just so you have an excuse to dress up_

_Who’s Samantha?_

_the witch? from bewitched?_

_What’s Bewitched?_

_are u fucking with me_

_or is joly fucking with me_

_Who’s Joly?_

_ok fine be that way_

_listen ur new pop culture secret obsession is safe w me_

_no one needs to know u’ve ever watched anything other than a ken burns doc_

_Grantaire, this show is from the ‘60s._

_I may not know much about pop culture,_

_but I don’t think this counts as relevant anymore_

_i take it back_

_better start practicing ur nose twitch_

_purim’s coming up soon_

Sunday was bound to roll around sooner or later.

Enjolras’s alarm went off at seven, and he rolled out of bed– physically rolled, because he still wasn’t used to sleeping on a mattress on the floor, on account of being at least enough of an adult to own a bed frame. (Combeferre would argue with him on the adult point, but then again, Combeferre was the only person who knew that for an entire year of law school, there was an ant infestation eating up all of Enjolras’s coffee grounds, and he did not notice at all until Combeferre pointed out that the amount of caffeine wasn’t too healthy for the ants.)

He stumbled into the kitchen for caffeine, even though Grantaire had the shittiest coffee known to mankind and despite drinking it all week, Enjolras wasn’t used to it. Stripped the floor-mattress of sheets and threw them into the wash. Read up about a new case at work, and then yes, watched some Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Paced around Grantaire’s apartment, brainstorming what to do about the roommate now that he, you know, actually had to go back and deal with that situation. Tried not to notice the sketches of idealistic blondes lying around the apartment, because even after a week Enjolras wasn’t positive they were all supposed to be him, because he didn’t know what it would mean if they were, and just didn’t want to think about it.

But all good, or at least better than average, things had to come to an end, and soon enough, Grantaire was back, camera bag slung over his shoulder, dark circles under his eyes.

“Enjoy your stay?” Grantaire quirked an eyebrow. “Gonna give me five stars on Airbnb?”

“Comfy mattress,” Enjolras said.

“Fucking Christ, are you _trying_ to do this?” Grantaire sighed. “Listen, I just got back from a week of taking photos of– okay, when you’re not being confusing, I am going to have to tell you about this wedding, because I swear there is nothing more wild than watching an ex-con marry an ex-cop, except for watching Marius Pontmercy propose at someone else’s wedding reception– the point is, I haven’t slept in a _week_.”

“And you usually do sleep?”

“Shut up.”

“What was I trying to do?” Enjolras asked. “How am I being confusing, again?”

Grantaire waved his hand between the two of them. “This. Whatever. Say things that in some way, on some other planet, could be interpreted as flirting, in an alternate universe where the mighty Enjolras would flirt. Text with me all week.” He ran his hands through his hair ( _his hair_ , Enjolras noticed). “What do you want, Apollo?” I let you kill my plants–”

“They were already dead.”

“I let you hang out with the ghosts of plants, you watched my weird shows, you _found sketches of yourself_ because I have them hanging on the wall, _like some sort of stalker–_ ”

“I don’t think you’re a stalker. I just don’t think you’re getting your security deposit back.”

Grantaire sighed, and flopped onto his couch, which Enjolras found very impressive– he could barely stand to sit there at all in the past week. “Are you always this dense?”

Enjolras stared.

“No, that was a dumb question, because I know the answer is yes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fuck, I need a drink.” Grantaire moved to get up, but ended up just falling back on the couch. “Nope, I’m too tired to stand up.”

Enjolras, risking the cramp in his shoulder he got last time he tried sitting there, joined Grantaire on the couch. 

“Since fucking _college_ ,” Grantaire muttered. “I thought you were just pretending not to notice I was in love with you, but nope, you’re just this dumb.”

“You what?”

“Bossuet said he let it slip last night, holy shit, Enjolras–

“He said you really liked me.”

“And you know, I’m starting to wonder why that was. Is. Fuck. Let’s pretend I didn’t say _any_ of this, and we can just go back to, I don’t know, barely talking, or whatever, or– listen, I cannot emphasize enough how little I’ve slept, and I’m not going to go all out and say that weddings make me emotional because fuck that, but watching two guys who once hated each other get married while waiting for your texts, like a teenager with a crush–”

Enjolras always thought everything through, sometimes to a fault. He was bold, but not impulsive. But somehow, with Grantaire inches away, the decision making part of his brain– Combeferre would know what it was called– seemed to be both working in overdrive and shut down completely. His palms were starting to sweat, which– what? Enjolras never got nervous, not when just talking with his friends, even Grantaire–

He leaned in, could see every freckle in Grantaire’s eyes, could feel his breath, warm against Enjolras’s face.

“What are you doing, Apollo,” Grantaire whispered.

“I don’t know.”

They were within kissing distance, as Courfeyrac would say, and “the laws of physics dictate that when you’re within kissing distance, you’re going to fall together.” ( _“Courfeyrac, that is not how the laws of physics work– Joly! Joly, get over here, you know science, tell Courf–” “Sorry Enjolras, Courfeyrac has a point, how do you think Bossuet and Musichetta and I got together?”_ )

“Fuck it,” Grantaire muttered, lifting his chin up.

Enjolras’s didn’t move back, didn’t recoil away, just leaned in to meet Grantaire’s lips with his own, kissing back, reaching out to run a hand through his hair, because maybe that wasn’t just a thing people wanted to do in the abstract, maybe it was something Enjolras wanted to do. This was something he could have been doing since _college_ , how had he missed out on kissing Grantaire that entire time?

“I think I wanted to do that for a while,” Enjolras admitted.

“Either that, or you just really, truly, can’t stand the thought of going back to your apartment,” Grantaire laughed. “Wait, if this is actually just a ruse to stay in my rockin’ pad for longer, like I get it, but–”

“Rockin’ pad?” Enjolras asked.

“Ah, the trademarked Enjolras Eye Roll,” Grantaire said. “But you’ve been watching old TV all week, rockin’ pad should be in your lingo by now.”

Another (apparently trademarked) eye roll. “You can never tell anyone I got hooked on fantasy sitcoms.”

“My lips are sealed,” Grantaire mimed zipping them shut. “Definitely did not tell Marius Pontmercy about it as it was happening.”

Enjolras was in for it when he got into the office on Monday, or maybe Marius was completely unfazed, or even better, just wouldn’t remember.

“So, which Dick did you like better as Samantha’s husband, York or Sargent–”

Enjolras kissed him again.

“Are you just trying to get me to shut up about Bewitched?” Grantaire laughed against Enjolras’s shoulder.

“Maybe.”

_indian food and mork + mindy tonight?_

_Grantaire, I am literally in the next room._

_then get back here :) :)_

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from an episode of Bewitched, obviously. On that fantasy sitcom note, please go look up the theme song for Jennifer Slept Here, because it is an entire out of body experience.
> 
> The roommate may or may not be Montparnasse. When him and Enjolras were first talking about moving in, he asked if Enjolras was okay with "MLMs." Enjolras, being Enjolras, thought he meant men-loving-men, and that is how this whole situation started.
> 
> When Marius invited Enjolras and Grantaire over for dinner, it was 100% supposed to be a double date. Marius just thought that Enjolras and Grantaire were dating, because he had absolutely no reason not to. Don't worry, this was all cleared up when Grantaire spent most of the week pining over Enjolras.
> 
> Many thanks to the incomparable Daney for editing and also just listening to me never shut up about Enjolras and Grantaire for literally over half a decade. A true hero.
> 
> Thanks y'all for reading!


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